


Barely Remembered Tune

by writingfromdarkplaces



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Gen, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-25 21:18:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7547578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfromdarkplaces/pseuds/writingfromdarkplaces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hums a tune he doesn't know the name of, mumbles words that he can't remember. It's all he has now. They've taken everything else away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Barely Remembered Tune

**Author's Note:**

> This... I believe it was written as the start of a sequel to a fic (um, a somewhat terrible fic, my first BSG fic) years and years ago, and while I have taken that down and don't intend to repost it, looking at it again, I was kind of pleased by this scene.
> 
> Other things, like the scene to follow it up, not as much. So I cut that, but this is kind of interesting, and I'm apparently in the mood to share random BSG things even if I shouldn't.

* * *

He hears music. It's not something that he wants to hear, that he wants to believe. He knows it's not real, because there's no music here, just an empty void full of pain and regret. He doesn't know exactly how he came to be here, or why, but he knows that he is here, and he knows here is not where he wants to be.

He doesn't have much that he's confident in besides that. He's not sure if it's night or day, if the people he sees are real or dreams.

He doesn't even remember his own name.

Just some stupid song. He can't stop humming the tune, though he can't remember the name. He occasionally gives it words, but he never has more than one or two at a time. He has no idea why this is so damn significant, why it off all things stays with him when all else is gone.

He's well and truly frakked. He knows this. He knows they know it, too, whoever they are.

He's living some sort of fugue, a dream, a haze. Whatever they want to call it, it's driving him nuts. Slowly, painfully, he is losing the battle with his sanity. True, he can't remember if he was sane in the first place, but he doesn't think he is now.

He does things by rote, things they tell him that he should do, that he must do, and he's not sure what he's doing anymore. He took comfort in the routine they gave him at first. He doesn't now. He knows he can't trust them, can't trust anyone.

Here, he sits, alone. He's not in prison, though he sometimes feels like he is. Or that this is some giant experiment; he's become a lab rat. He's being watched, constantly, and he's not sure if they're just curious or they're waiting for him to break.

He repeats the name they gave him. Lucas Andrews, call sign Adonis. He wonders why he can't believe that it's really his name. He knows, somehow, that it's close, but it's not right. It isn't even right when they call him Luke. And they don't call him Adonis that often. They prefer “Captain” or “Sir.”

It's a strange feeling, this limbo. He waits here, wanting something to jog his memory, to change something, but he hasn't found it yet. He's not sure that he will. He doesn't think much of hope, not here. He should be dependent on it, craving it, but he doesn't think he's ever been the type. He doesn't hope. He doesn't believe. He says “Oh, my gods,” and “Lords of Kobol,” and for that instant, and that instant alone, he believes those words. He doesn't believe them when he's alone, when he thinks about it.

He wonders if that was what got him here, his agnosticism, his disbelief. Maybe if he had hope, he wouldn't have lost everything. He'd remember more, remember enough to get him back where he belonged, which he knew wasn't here. He thought hope was somehow the key to his memories, and he knows he doesn't have what he needs.

He catches himself humming the tune again. He tries to remember the words that went with it—all he can come up with is “darkness.” He doesn't think he'll remember that for long. He tries, but it all slips away.

Sometimes he wonders if there's a drug involved, but he doesn't think so. He chooses his own food, such as it is, and he eats only what he wants. No doctors invade his privacy, and no injections are forced on him. If it's in his water, he can't see or taste it. He has given up looking. He doesn't want to try anymore.

He tells himself that he is Luke Andrews, that he is a captain in the Colonial Fleet, and that's all he needs to know.

It isn't.


End file.
